Irish Coffee
by AlessNox
Summary: Moriarty always had problems with depression, but life keeps finding a way to call him back. Prequel 2008. Based on this image prompt: www. benedictstenning. com/chasing-cotards/oh4kxuiyc2yoh1pltetg2gjsymkjp8


_**Manchester, England 2008**_

A short dark-haired young man in a seven hundred pound suit walks past a small cafe with patio tables. He is carrying a leather travel bag in one hand. He walks confidently not looking aside as the cafe door swings open. A young woman, thin, blond, with a red lock of hair falling over her left eye yells back at the grizzled manager.

 _"You can't just fire me. I have bills to pay."_

 _"You should have thought of that before you came late to work today."_

 _"But please, I can't lose this job."_

 _"What do I care what happens to you, you Irish trash!"_

The man turns a corner and the sounds pass away behind him.

He walks past taxi cabs and people with bags, to push his way through a revolving glass door. He goes up to the counter and lays down several hundred pound notes.

"Oh sir, you don't need to..."

"I always prefer to pay in advance," The dark haired man says with a lilt in his voice. "Problem?"

"No sir. How long will your stay be?"

"Only one night."

"Room or suite?"

"Give me the best suite you have."

"Of course sir, right this way." The man nods to a woman who takes his place at counter as he walks toward the elevator. "Do you have luggage?"

"Only my bag."

"Would you like me to carry it?"

"No."

The desk clerk opens the windows to reveal a panorama of the city and the surrounding countryside. The man looks at it briefly with a frown before walking into the bedroom and putting his bag down on the bed.

"Is the bar fully stocked?"

"Yes sir."

"That will be all then."

"Please dial zero if you need anything and I..."

"I said LEAVE!" the man yells his dark eyes sharp as steel.

The clerk runs out closing the door behind him as the man walks through another door to find the bathroom. It also has a panorama of the city. There is a large freestanding bathtub near the mirrored window. He opens the taps and then walks forward putting his cheek against the glass.

"It looks like a rats nest. Nothing here but rats and fleas. Vermin. No place for a man to live at all. Why am I here? If I ever meet fate, I'll shoot her right between the eyes."

He walks through the suite examining the expensive furnishings in a bored sort of way before pouring himself a bottle of the most expensive scotch that he can find. He spits it out, throwing the bottle against the wall so that it shatters, then he picks up some Vodka and drinks it straight out of the bottle.

He puts it on the table and walks into the bedroom opening his bag to reveal some tools, a gun, and an assortment of knives. He takes the largest knife in his hand, a Bowie knife that he got off of an arrogant Australian who didn't know that in the battle between guns and semi-automatics, the knife loses.

He tosses it up in the air catching it with two fingers as he walks back through, picking up the bottle of vodka as he passes.

The bath is almost full now, water rippling across the surface in waves as it pours from the decorative spout. He takes another sip of vodka, putting the bottle on the bathroom counter before climbing into the bath fully clothed. The upset bath splashes over the rim to flood the tiled floor as he lowers himself into water almost too hot to stand.

"Good, good!" he murmurs to himself as he lies his head back. He holds the knife in the first two fingers of his right hands before tossing it up again and catching it by the handle. He reaches over intending to cut the button off of his cuff, but at the last minute he stops and undoes it by hand.

"Alexander McQueen!"

He rolls up his sleeves and then lies back holding the knife in his fingers before closing his eyes. The face of the woman at the cafe comes back to him.

 _"...You Irish trash!"_

His brow wrinkles.

He looks down at his pale thin arms placing the knife against his wrist, then he looks away remembering...

A cup of steaming coffee and a croissant. Red locks falling over her face as the woman leans over to refill his cup.

"It's a harsh world. Us Irish ought to stick togeth'r, don't you think?"

He drops the knife to the floor and rises up out of the bath, water dripping off of his suit as he gets to his feet.

"I may be a half-drowned rat, but I'm not dead yet."

The next day he walks down the street passing the burned out remnants of what once was a cafe.

"Us Irish ought to stick togeth'r," he says. And then he grins.


End file.
